


Shining How We Want

by blotsandcreases



Category: RPF - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cisgirl!Zayn, F/F, Self-Indulgent, cisgirl!Harry, cisgirl!direction, minimal angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 05:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4594689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blotsandcreases/pseuds/blotsandcreases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn meets Harry in front of a broken sanitary towel vending machine in the ladies' bathroom. Fortunately, Zayn always carries a spare with her. She thinks she might qualify as some sort of towel heroine now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shining How We Want

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really self-indulgent fic, and the majority of it was written before Zayn tweeted that Minion jumper so in this fic Zayn regards them darkly.
> 
> Title from Brighter Than The Sun by Colbie Caillat.

When Zayn opened the bathroom door, she had a moment of relief in the form of the champagne-hued and marble-tiled silence. It was shattered, with startling efficiency, by a frantic creaking.

She was not alone, unfortunately. In the corner where the vending machine gleamed, a tall girl was repeatedly turning the knob and banging on the aluminium frame. Zayn would have been alarmed for the vending machine - the girl’s hand easily dwarfed the knob - if Zayn hadn’t realised that it was the knob for tampons.

Zayn cleared her throat. The girl continued a low string of curses, and shoved two fingers into the coin slot. Zayn winced. Bad move, since it appeared that only the width of one and a half of the girl’s fingers could go in there. The girl seemed to realise this as well, if the muttered “sweet jelly fuck” was anything to go by, and the unsticking of a finger. Now it looked like she was fucking the coin slot, and woah Zayn must’ve been more pissed than she’d thought.

“Hey,” Zayn called. She shuffled closer, already digging into her purse.

The girl looked up. Some of her curls were sticking to her forehead and tumbling down the side of her flushed face, but Zayn didn’t miss the way her eyes widened. Zayn could sympathise; she would’ve been wishing for the vending machine to just suck _her_ in and adopt her for a month.

“Oh,” the girl said, “oh my god, I -”

“Er, so I only got a towel,” Zayn said, “but it’s prime shit, overnight towel and everything.”

The girl unstuck her remaining finger and wobbled towards Zayn to take the towel. “Thank you, thank you, oh my god, thank you,” she told Zayn, somehow frowning and smiling at the same time.

Zayn nodded. She watched the girl give her another sheepish smile through a quick sliver between darkwood panels. Then she hurried into the stall farthest from the girl’s to have some alone time.

She was only here tonight because Shahid was her mate, and Shahid’s label had insisted on celebrating her BRITs nomination by inviting loads of people who might be in a position of making connections, from the artists featuring in the album to the DJs in Radio 1 to some journalists for The Guardian to people in other labels. Which also meant Louis Tomlinson, who owned an imprint, and also happened to be the one who took Zayn in under her wing in uni.

Zayn had also known Shahid for quite a few years now, too, and Zayn was there when a reporter had insinuated that women seemed to be taking over the music industry, and was Shahid playing favourites with people of colour now? Shahid had told him to “fuck right off and go listen to your wilting tunes and fucking banjos and pretentious existential crises.”

Of course that led to a slew of think pieces, and Louis had decided that it was an inspired move to take to Twitter with a little comment. It had devolved from there, mostly because, in Zayn’s opinion, Shahid and Louis had been having two entirely different conversations, the fuckers, and now it was all a big mess to even sort out where the misunderstanding took place.

Though it still baffled Zayn to this day how those two had managed to stand on either side of Janet Jackson for a selfie at the Grammys last year, when they had been at each other’s throats over filter aesthetics, for fuck’s sake. You’d think they were mates or something, Louis’ eyes crinkling at the corners and Shahid abandoning the pout for a small smile which meant she was really happy.

It was baffling, because it shouldn’t be, but also pleasing.

“Congratulations,” Zayn had drawled the night after the Grammys, tea cooling and swamped with papers, “for taking my advice and actually behaving like adults.”

Louis’ voice through the receiver was cracked to a lower pitch than usual. “It’s too early for this. Fuck.”

“Past noon. Night for your body clock.”

On another phone call twenty minutes later, Shahid had said, after a lengthy pause, “Aren’t you on a hunt for Beyond Heaving Bosoms? I saw one here. At The Strand. America is unexpectedly delightful.”

So here Zayn was, because of friendship and it also didn’t hurt that she taught first years over at Kingston whilst completing her postgrad. Nothing like a free walking promotion.

Zayn lifted her forehead from where it was resting against the dark mahogany door. Head decidedly clearer than it was half an hour ago, she stepped out from the stall to find the girl washing her hands.

“Hey,” she greeted, dimpling at Zayn in the mirror. “Thank you so much again, it was a bit apocalyptic back there.

Zayn hoped her smile wasn’t too awkward as she flipped open the faucet on the next sink. “‘S not a problem.”

The girl shifted a bit, and Zayn swore she did a little hip wiggle. “I never knew this brand has this type of sanitary towels. Really nifty that it practically covers your whole knickers.”

The girl had a low voice with a touch of rasp which made Zayn think of smoke over shards of glass. She also took her time in letting the words slip from her mouth, which Zayn attributed to alcohol.

“No one will ever know,” the girl continued, now drying her hands. “No more embarrassing arse stains. I used to change towels like four or five times before dinner before I used tampons, but never got the nerve to use those cup things, like. Diva cups? Dunno why it’s called a diva cup. But the stained knickers stopped being embarrassing after secondary, anyway, and I think I’ve still got jokes about it and - oh, sorry. God. I tend to go on.”

Zayn couldn’t really say she ever had period chats with rambling strangers before, so she just huffed out a laugh. “Nah, that’s fine. Once I managed to get by with just a liner. And it was a heavy flow, mind.”

“How the hell?”

“I really have no idea. But nowadays I’m light to medium flow so it’s good.” Zayn paused, marvelling at her life choices and specifically this moment, before shrugging. “Still keep some spare of my favourite wrap, though,”she finished, patting her tiny purse.

The girl stared at Zayn for a beat longer, probably making a mental note to carry a spare in the future, or probably just drunk. Then her green eyes flicked from Zayn’s purse and back to Zayn again. “I’m Harry, by the way, and I love your purse.”

“Thanks? Ha, thanks, Harry.” Zayn picked up the purse from Caroline, a black lovely with finely sewn skulls and red roses, and shook Harry’s hand.

Zayn was right. It was a big hand, with long fingers. Although it was not surprising, since everything about Harry was long (dark curls falling just past the shoulders, legs in tight dark jeans) and big (earnest pink-lipped smile, feet in ridiculous pointy boots with flowers on the ankles).

On the sink near Harry there was a pouch thing, its strings getting damp from the drops of water. The pouch’s material was a never-ending print of flowers and it had honest to god large purple buttons sewn on it. It resembled a tea cosy more than a pouch-purse, and Zayn found herself biting off a grin.

“I’m Zayn,” she tacked on, “and your pouch rocks.”

“Oh, I know,” Harry said, still beaming. “That it is a lovely pouch, I mean, and that you’re Zayn.”

“Er, you do?”

“You’re Louis’ mate? Read English at Kingston? Impassioned defender of album art and girl bands?”

Zayn’s frowning was interrupted by her laughter. “She said that?”

“Verbatim.” Even Harry’s grin took its time to curl up even more, as if blindly prodding for more space.

“To be fair, she’s the patron of girl bands,” Zayn said, absently, as she tried to remember if Louis had ever mentioned any Harry. “So you know Louis.”

“I only met her tonight, but my best mate Niall does.”

“Niall Horan? The singer?”

“The one and only. Dragged me here to help me decide which way to go.”

Zayn tilted her head. “Which way to go?”

Harry was opening her mouth, shoulders drooping further as if she was settling in for quite a story, but the door beat her to it. Liam’s head appeared, quite harried until she spotted them.

“Zayn,” Liam sighed, puppy frown instantly smoothing into a puppy beam. She reached them in a few strides, then slid an arm around Zayn’s waist. “There you are, Louis’ looking for you.”

“I actually had to socialise tonight,” Zayn pointed out, and pulled Liam in by the shoulders. “Flitting around, like. Had to take a breather, hadn’t I.”

“By socialise, you meant going back and forth between Louis and Ms Khan.”

Zayn turned to look at Harry, who was eyeing Liam’s hand on Zayn’s waist with a singular focus. Zayn got that because Liam had the hands of someone who bench pressed and boxed and other exercise particulars Zayn couldn’t be bothered with.

“Liam, this is Harry,” Zayn said. “She’s best mates with Niall Horan. Harry, this is Liam, she’s a producer for another imprint.”

Harry perked up again, gamely shaking Liam’s hand. “Lovely to meet you. Quite something to have introductions in the bathroom.”

Liam flushed and withdrew her hand to make a sheepish rub at the side of her neck. Zayn’s laugh turned into a hiccough. She pressed her hand against her mouth and took deep breaths, but she still shook with hiccoughs and giggles.

“Let’s get you some water,” Harry said, giggling too, and the three of them crowded out of the bathroom.

*

The event still showed no signs of winding down.

Zayn had been in her second glass of water when Louis caught up with her, asking, “All right?” Normally this would mean nipping down for a quick smoke instead of the toilets, but Zayn was in the middle of cutting down and already in one smoke a week.

“Good night?” Zayn asked, instead.

“Decent, so far. Considering.” Louis trailed off.

Zayn finished glugging her water, and snorted.

“I thought I might be getting more gossip around here,” Louis lamented. “Which is a shame. There’s alcohol, and I could gloat.”

“The vending machine in the toilet’s fucked,” Zayn supplied.

After rolling her eyes at this apparent subpar gossip fodder, Louis trailed away and managed to grab onto Liam’s arse, dragging her over to a small circle of people having conversation with Simon Cowell.

“Are they together, then?”

Zayn looked up. Harry had returned from the caterers’ tables, a drink and two serviette-wrapped biscuits in hand.

“Who’re together?” Zayn asked as she peeled back the serviette on a chocolate macadamia and took a bite. Perhaps it was the light dinner she’d had hours ago, or perhaps the caterer’s hidden agenda was to stage orgasmic riots in taste buds because Zayn was startled into a moan, and promptly choked it back.

There was a grin tucked on the edges of Harry’s smile. “Louis and Liam.”

“I dunno with those two. Last time I checked, yeah.”

“For a bit I thought you’re with Liam.” Harry leaned her elbow on the small white table they were stood around.

Zayn chuckled. “I’m with Liam in a way that we have standing dates to go to comic shops for new issues, yeah.” Harry grinned and started poking at the prints of Zayn’s purse. “Also,” Zayn plowed on, because why not, “I thought you were into Liam’s hands.”

“I was into how they made you look tiny.”

Over her vodka-cranberry, Harry was looking at Zayn with the same singular focus she had directed at Liam’s hand. It was a look Zayn was certain she herself had been directing at the biscuit earlier, only Harry’s look right now had the edge of a serial biscuit eater.

They stared at each other, Harry biting at the rim of her glass and Zayn halfway to putting a crumb in her mouth. Then they burst into giggles.

“This is really good, though,” Zayn said as she folded the serviette.

“Yeah. Goes well with hot chocolate.”

It was easy for people to be lost to you in London, no matter what the movies said. It took Zayn four years before she stumbled into her childhood friend Melissa in a record shop in Hampstead. So it only took the time for Zayn to finish folding the serviette into a swallow before she decided to take the plunge.

“There’s a place down the street.” She glanced up at Harry, meeting Harry’s eyes just as they lifted from Zayn’s origami creation. Zayn floated the swallow over to her. “Collette’s. Wanna try the hot chocolate?”

Fifteen minutes later they were out on the pavement, bundled into their coats and peering at the blinking flow of car headlights. The street still seemed to pulse at this time in the night, its establishments’ lights rolling out an eggy carpet for Zayn and Harry to walk through.

“So, do you have work tomorrow?” Harry asked, bumping their shoulders. She was still tinkering with the swallow, turning it over and over in her hands, smiling at it with a kind of satisfaction.

Zayn groaned. “Don’t remind me. Over at Kingston.” Harry laughed as Zayn continued to mumble, “Sunday night parties, what the hell.”

“Ooh, Professor.”

“Nah, like, I’m still a student myself. But they make me teach lit survey classes to the little kids. What about yo - oh, here we are.”

Zayn liked watching Harry chatter away. She moved her hands as if to create sign onomatopoeia for the sound effects she made, and the rose-tinged lighting caught and held every passing emotion in her face in a certain way. A way which could be described in a maybe more poetic genius, considering the dark-panelled walls and the little rosewood table, but right now to Zayn it was in a way which made her want to slowly tip her cup over Harry’s lips so she could languidly lap at the viscous chocolate there.

Well. Okay.

Harry also took her time to get to the point. Zayn hoped this habit didn’t extend to essays, and she was also thankful Harry was not her student. But she was more thankful that she had the time to gather that the answer to her question was Harry still deciding whether to take the photography route or the indie/folk/rock singer route.

“Once upon a time,” Harry said, “I had this dream to become a photojournalist, you know, the kind who wins Pulitzer Prizes and things. Goes to different places.”

Zayn hummed. “What happened?”

“Well, they go to risky places, yeah?”

“Not a risky lass.”

“I am a risqué lass,” Harry said, smirking.

“Oh my god.” Zayn huffed out a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Hear that a lot.” Smiling, Harry tapped at the chunky ring on Zayn’s forefinger. “But I wanna hear about you.”

Zayn plucked out the teaspoon from her hot chocolate, licking it clean before setting it down on the saucer. “My mum calls me ridiculous for getting excited at pushing grocery trolleys,” she started.

Harry had a lot of questions. She asked if Zayn had a favourite bookshop when Zayn said she could meander in one for hours. When Zayn said she listened to hip hop and R&B, Harry asked for a quick 101 and also the last song Zayn listened to. She also wanted to know about Caroline and Zayn’s bags, and they got sidetracked chatting about the purple buttons on Harry’s pouch and also the benefits of totes versus backpacks.

It was easy, talking like this. Zayn loved discussions in the lecture room both as a student and as a teacher, and she had no problem with social situations like Shahid’s and Louis’ parties but usually she had to have a certain mindset for those. Ever since being aware of this as a teenager, she could now barely register the subtle shift in her mind, clicking from “chill” to “not-downtime.”

Oddly - pleasantly - enough, now felt chill, considering she had just met Harry in a loo. That was why Zayn was quite put out when she realised the time.

“I have to go, classes tomorrow and stuff.” She grimaced apologetically as they stood up and collected their things.

“Oh,” Zayn said, pausing at the door, “you never answered my question. Did you sew those purple buttons by yourself?”

Harry tilted her head, then reached out and squeezed Zayn’s arm. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Zayn smirked. “Oh really.”

“Tried to be sneaky. I slipped my number into your coat.”

“What, with my swallow?” Zayn couldn’t stop smiling. She also couldn’t stop resting her hands on top of her coat pockets.

“Course not,” Harry said with a pout. “Little bird’s mine now.”

*

The last of the over-eager first years finally bid Zayn goodbye and trundled along in a close-knit group characteristic of the freshers, a hastily thrown together mix of some shy, some energetic, all wide-eyed. Zayn watched them with amusement as they wove their way through the late afternoon chaos, and then she turned to walk to her car with a sigh.

Those groups almost never lasted. She wouldn’t be surprised if by fourth year, they would have drifted off to new friends as each of them became more settled in their own skins.

Zayn had just opened the door of her car, a rich purple sedan but nothing too flashy, and settled her laptop bag and backpack on the front seat when her phone buzzed.

Will be late :(, Harry texted, fell off my bicycle patching up :(.

She found Harry outside the Waitrose in Surbiton, pouch bag jauntily swinging from one arm and a wound dressing the size of Zayn’s fist forming a lump underneath her jean-clad knee.

Zayn frowned as she walked over. “How is it?”

“I’ll live, it’s fine,” Harry assured, beaming. “Now how about a spot of shopping?”

“Oh yes,” Zayn drawled, “you’re switching your allegiance to towels. And - ‘m the Yoda, I guess.”

“Re-switching,” Harry reminded as they stepped in. “Wait, is that a word?”

“Flighty is a word.”

Harry laughed, tilting her long frame towards Zayn to give Zayn’s chin a fleeting caress. “Fit, you’re fit.”

“Flirting, innit?” Zayn challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Grinning, Harry held out her hand. Zayn didn’t hesitate to clasp it with hers, though she did mull about it as they made their way to the stack of baskets.

First in the agenda were the sanitary towels. Zayn pointed out last night’s superstar, and Harry proceeded to dump three sets in her basket before intently comparing all the other overnight towels. Then they loped off to the biscuits section where Zayn picked a box of Walkers Shortbread and another box of Honolulu Cookies for Brooklyn, and a string of gummy bear packets for herself.

Harry took forever to choose which stir-fry sauce to have, and was endlessly amused when Zayn bought a whole cooked chicken for the dinner with Caro and Brook.

“Their pre-made meals are good and reasonably priced,” Zayn defended, then poked at Harry’s cheek.

 

Once they were in the queue, Zayn remembered. She turned to Harry, but found her already looking back. “So. Did you? Sew the buttons by yourself?”

“You won’t be impressed.” She shuffled closer to Zayn, adding, “You smell really good, by the way. This perfume is positively heavenly.”

Zayn felt her lips quirk. “Thanks. But why won’t I be impressed?”

“My sister did it. But I tried. Came out of it with pricked fingers.”

“Buttons on a tea-cosy bag,” Zayn mused, “and a bicycle. You’re cute.”

“Bicycles are environmentally friendly.”

“Not so friendly to your knee.”

“You’re cheeky.” The complaint was ruined by a smile. It was the serial biscuit eater smile. “And I used to think you were all quiet and broody and mysterious.”

“I can be all those,” Zayn said at length. “But I could’ve sworn that cheeky was you, lass.”

They reached the cashier. It was quick work, paying and bagging, since there were not much items between the two of them, and soon they were ambling out, hand in hand.

Zayn was resolutely not thinking too much into it. Waitrose hadn’t tilted in its axis as glitter exploded and so the world was thankfully not awash with bog rolls and tea boxes, just like it hadn’t been when they held hands as they’d entered. Harry probably just loved holding people’s hands. She was probably an utterly adored lollipop lady at one point. And Zayn didn’t mind having her hand held by Harry. Harry’s hand was neither warm nor cold, nor a conduit of firework connection, just a nice weight which swung slightly.

Nope, Zayn was thinking of other things. “Used to think? We only met last night.”

Harry bit her lip. “I - okay, I promise this is not meant to be creepy,” she said, speaking faster than what Zayn had earlier realised to be her normal pace. “But I already saw you hours before the bathroom and I kept trying to approach you but you were always disappearing.”

Outside the harsh bright fluorescents of Waitrose, the afternoon sky was already in the navy and dark purple ribbons of mid-winter. Zayn turned to Harry. “‘s great we used the toilets, then.”

Harry groaned. “Swooped in and saved me, didn’t you.”

“I always knew dreams do come true,” Zayn added with a wistful smile. “Toiletries heroine. Probably should have a t-shirt stenciled with that soon.”

“No, wait, I think I have a joke somewhere.”

“Please don’t,” Zayn said. “The bicycle one earlier was enough - oh, yeah, drive you to the Tube?”

There was low music during the drive, and the warmth seeped in welcome on Zayn’s skin. Harry asked to take a picture of Zayn’s backpack, fawning over Caroline’s custom-made print material of various yellow emojis interspersed with gummy bears. Zayn deeply understood the sentiment.

Before Harry got off the car, she leaned over and said, “This has been really lovely.” A beat, then, “Can I kiss you?”

Zayn smiled and leaned the rest of the way. A dry and lingering kiss was pressed on her lips, and that kiss felt nice and plush, warm and languid like the air wafting from the heater, so Zayn pressed back a bit. She couldn’t tell which one of them opened her mouth first, but Zayn wasn’t expecting the urgent shiver that shot through her spine and had them surging up against each other, the seatbelt still fastened on her be damned.

With a wet nip, Zayn broke away. “I’ve got an appointment, babe.” That, and the fact that they were in a heavy-traffic street and not even parked.

“Yeah,” Harry rasped. She licked her lips, eyes still intent on Zayn’s face, seeming to steel herself, before she leaned away. “Yeah. Drive safe.”

With a squeeze on Zayn’s thigh, she was stumbling out of the car.

*

Caroline had always approved of Zayn’s small flat in Shoreditch, pleased that Zayn had “not succumbed to the artsy mess of young uns today.” Zayn had rolled her eyes then, but she still felt gratified when Caroline, upon arriving for dinner with Brook, immediately noticed the flat’s addition.

“Oh babe,” she exclaimed as she handed the wine and box of tiramisu to Zayn, “what have you got there? Looks amazing.”

Zayn put the wine and tiramisu away to chill and checked the chicken heating, before heading back and scooping up Brook. Some squealing from both of them occurred.

“That’s pastel,” she told Caroline. “Was playing with it a bit. Turned out fine.”

“Really good,” Caroline said, still peering at Zayn’s latest dabbling in art. Zayn knew Caroline was itching to poke at it a bit, curious with the textures, just as she had been with all of Zayn’s pieces which littered the white walls of the flat.

“I’ve got a present for you,” Zayn sang to Brooklyn.

Brooklyn giggled and tugged at the purple swath of hair never lost amongst the inky pile on Zayn’s head. She was getting bigger, but Zayn’s arms still managed. “Pressies!”

“Remember those biscuits from last week? Zayn’s favourites?”

Brooklyn let out another squeal, her chubby fists excitedly gripping at Zayn. Caroline was laughing and shaking her head at them. “You’re spoiling her with treats.”

“Ah, but dinner before treats,” Zayn reminded Brooklyn.

Dinner was the chicken from Waitrose, golden and stuffed with lemongrass and a large onion, and biryanii, which was one of the few things that Zayn could cook without the threat of chopped fingers or burnt hair.

“One of them wouldn’t shut up about _The Devil Wears Prada_ ,” Caroline was saying at one point, “like it was a fashion rulebook or summat. Not like I couldn’t tell that the tone of the clothes just wouldn’t suit him.”

She paused to wipe Brooklyn’s chin.

Zayn refilled Brook’s glass with mango juice. “What’s wrong with that?”

“His hair’s brown, innit, and he had a tan just as brown. Then his eyes are brown, and he wanted the godforsaken brown jacket and trousers. Monochromatic in the ailing kind of way.”

Zayn laughed. “Daft. What a daft fu - bloke.” She glanced at Brooklyn, but her goddaughter was busy chewing on the chicken Caroline had cut up. “I swear some of the first years don’t take me seriously, like. Either they distrust me cause they’re nearly my age, or they think I’m cool and chill. Matey.”

“Zayn,” Brooklyn called. She’d finished her chicken and biryanii, but was pointing to the biryanii for a second helping.

“Sure it’s not too spicy, love?” Zayn asked, even though she had toned down the flavour from her mum’s recipe.

“It’s all right,” Caroline said, “it’s her favourite, innit?”

“Zayn favourite,” Brooklyn chirped.

Zayn scrunched up her nose at Brooklyn for a smile as she scooped the rice onto Brooklyn’s plate. “Oh is my favourite your favourite, then?”

“Thank god she’s over the gummy bear phase,” Caroline quipped, polishing off her wine. “I still blame you for that.”

“But you only had three a day, didn’t you, love?” Zayn told the cutest kid ever. “Was very responsible.”

They eventually drifted over to the sofa with tiramisu on cake plates and a newly opened bottle of wine, the one Zayn’s dad had given her when he had popped by with Saf three weeks ago.

“It’s wicked,” Zayn said, “what you did with Asami Zdrenka. Saw her last night.”

“Thanks, babe.” Caroline patted Zayn’s arm, and turning to Brook, said, “No, love, water for you. Here.” When she had made sure that Brooklyn was settled between them, she continued, “Always a sweet darling, Asami. Met anyone else?”

Zayn took the time to help herself to another slice. Caroline was looking at her with a knowing glint, either because she had heard of Zayn separately cornering Shahid and Louis to say goodbye, or because she’d always known that Zayn didn’t hold back on finishing a box of treats by herself when she didn’t have company.

Probably both.

“Met this girl in the loo -”

Caroline raised her brows. “Well.”

“Not like that, god,” Zayn said, biting her lip to keep the grin off. Though it was a nice thought, what Caroline had assumed. “She got her period, and I was the super heroine with the towel.”

Caroline laughed. Brook looked up curiously at the both of them. Zayn beamed down at her and helped her to more tiramisu.

“Got her number or what?” Caroline said, at last.

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbled, “got her number. Met her today.”

“Oh, Zayn.”

Zayn looked up at that, at the quiet timbre Caroline took. Caroline’s lips were a flat unreadable line, but her eyes remained soft and loving. Zayn knew, then, that Caroline was thinking about Perrie.

“You fall in love too fast,” Caroline said, still in that quiet voice as if that would soften the truth that Zayn had learned not to name.

Zayn teased a crumb of tiramisu with her fork. “It’s not - I’m older now. Got some perspective saved up, yeah?”

It was true, Zayn liked to hope, as she fiddled with a strap of Brooklyn’s dungarees. She was a different person by a shadow when she was nineteen from who she was when she was eighteen. It felt barely there but it was a significant shift which sometimes surprised her during those times when she had realised she stopped wishing for thicker thighs or started casually asking the retail lady for lacy bras. So it was not surprising that the world looked a different shade when she was twenty-two than when she was eighteen. When she thought of Perrie now, barely a handful of years after twenty-two and a few more shades different again, it would be in dulled but smarting bursts of colour: stumbling into her during their Freshers’ Pub Crawl when they both lost their flatmates, classic rock blaring from Perrie’s laptop, Zayn dyeing Perrie’s hair from mermaid purple to marshmallow pink; Perrie wearing a T-shirt which declared BIG SPOON whilst she walked down a chaotic hallway, hand in hand with a LITTLE SPOON-clad Zayn.

And then, a door closing.

The shades which had painted Perrie’s world at twenty-two seemed not to go well with Zayn’s.

Caroline patted the hand Zayn got draped along the back of the sofa. “All right,” she said. “All right. Now, let me tell you all about fashion’s latest.”

Zayn perked up at that. She smiled at Caroline, and turned her hand palm up so she could give Caroline’s hand a squeeze.

*

“I wish I knew how to rollerblade,” Harry said. “You know, to rollerblade without breaking my neck. Be very handy sometimes.”

Zayn briefly entertained a picture of Harry slowly rollerblading through the streets, camera clicking away. She giggled and put it away for cartoon drawing when she had nothing better to do. “I could teach you.”

Harry looked down from the sky she was surveying. “Yeah?”

It had stopped raining, and Zayn was slightly sorry. The rain had looked really nice, silver wisps slashing through a navy darkness, turning into a fog-like mist a few feet from the ground. When she had pointed this out to Harry as they stood under a bookshop’s awning, Harry fiddled with her camera and angled it several times for some shots.

But Zayn was also relieved because it was getting beyond chilly. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her padded coat. “Sure,” she told Harry. “We can also skateboard.”

Harry looked amused now, though it was softened by something Zayn couldn’t read yet. Or wouldn’t dare to.

But who was she kidding?

Nah, Zayn would just put it down to avoiding jumping to conclusions.

“You also skateboard.” She was looking at Zayn now like Zayn was a very fluffy biscuit.

“Yeah, like, yeah.” Zayn coughed. “‘M a proper gangsta, and all that.” She dug deeper into her coat pockets and was gratified to find a packet of gummy bears.

Harry beamed at her, then closed the space between them to loop their arms together. “Sure you are.”

They ambled further along, Blackfriars bridge rain-slick beneath their feet and, on either side of them, the Thames a busy darkness littered with gleaming ripples.

“Yeah, some of my students think so.” Zayn offered the packet to Harry.

They spent the next fifteen minutes discussing Sophie Hatter, who was a complete gangsta in Zayn’s opinion. Harry hadn’t read Howl’s Moving Castle yet, but Zayn thought she managed to convince Harry after an involved summary and the mention of hats.

“I’d like that,” Harry said, chewing thoughtfully. “A floating castle, I’d like that. And you said Howl’s fashion forward. But having a castle which could take you everywhere.”

“Well, you being a photographer or singer would.”

Harry sighed. “I know. I just - I wish I could have both? I grew up thinking they’re not very secure jobs, you know, and.”

Not practical, not ambitious enough, Zayn’s mind supplied, as it had learned to soak up what everyone had told Zayn from her parents to Danny and Ant’s parents to Perrie. But Zayn just carefully pressed her shoulder against Harry’s, as if there was any space left. “And?”

Harry puffed out her cheeks. She held the pout for a few seconds before slowly breathing out a misty sigh. “You’re amazing, having figured it out at this time.”

“Barely,” Zayn corrected her. “Just barely. Think of your idea of play, right, that’ll work. That way everyday’s sort of like a holiday, you know?”

“I feel selfish and - and prattish with all this whinging. Sorry about that.”

They have passed the bridge by then. Now all the lights are closer and glowy, comforting in a way which reminded Zayn of candles snug inside pumpkins, or of the shell lamp her dad had handcrafted for her mum which was always lit when all of them were sat in the sitting room.

“Don’t be,” Zayn said, jostling their shoulders for emphasis. “It’s not selfish. It’s not. And I did whinge about that. Long angst sessions in my head. I almost walked in the rain without umbrella and in all black.”

Harry barked out a laugh, and nearly toppled off backwards. Zayn giggled as she tightened on their looped arms.

“You’d get a cold, though,” Harry said as she calmed down. “Staring outside windows and being toasty is nicer.”

“I do like jumpers,” Zayn agreed. “And hot drinks.”

And because Harry was excitable, as Zayn had been learning over the past two weeks, she was already steering them into a shopping centre as giggles occasionally and quietly burst out from Zayn.

“You’re a mobile hazard,” Zayn said at one point.

“That’s true,” Harry said, smiling. “I also get lost quite a bit.”

“Ah, then leave the steering to me. Thanks for the enthusiasm, though. But I am a born compass.” Harry’s smile widened as she crowded closer to Zayn, and Zayn nodded emphatically as she continued, “Where are we going?”

They went into one of the first shops they encountered with jumpers tastefully displayed on its window. Zayn let out a pleased hum as she ran her hands over a bottle green cable-knit jumper. One moment she was examining all the green jumpers and thinking which shade would suit her, and the next she and Harry were huddling into a fitting room.

“Should I go for the flowery one?” Harry asked as she started unbuttoning her top. “Or the red one?”

“The red one,” was Zayn’s instant reply, though she was more luxuriant in pace as she toed off her boots and hung her coat next to the bottle green jumper. “Flowers are great, babe,” she assured Harry, her voice muffled by the Kamala Khan t-shirt she was pulling over her head, “but not hot pink flowers on bright orange jumpers.”

When Zayn resurfaced she could glimpse at her now fluffed hair from the mirror, visible just over Harry’s shoulder and contorted arms. Harry, who was halfway out of the hideous jumper but very much into the serial biscuit eater mode.

She should probably stop thinking about biscuits, Zayn thought distractedly as Harry stepped closer, completely discarding the jumper. Even though they had fucked in Zayn’s kitchen the day before, the smell of the tea break biscuits Harry had brought over mingling with the nankhatai and cake rusk in Zayn’s biscuit tin from home as Zayn rode Harry’s fingers.

“Should we,” Zayn breathed out in between nibbling at Harry’s bottom lip, “at least have a fitting first?”

“I’ll take the red one,” Harry murmured. She turned Zayn away from the heavy black curtain which separated them from the narrow hallway to back her against the wall.

It was a cool shock against Zayn’s swiftly heating skin, gleefully confusing with Harry’s warm skin pressed against Zayn’s shoulders and chest and stomach, sending goosebumps skittering along her arms all the same.

Zayn raised her leg to nudge Harry much closer with the heel of her socked feet digging on the back of Harry’s knee. And then there was Harry’s thigh between Zayn’s legs. Zayn ground down against it, her nails scratching at Harry’s scalp with as much intent as Harry’s mouth sucking beneath Zayn’s jaw. Harry was helping her move, hands tight on Zayn’s hips, pulling Zayn towards her with every thrust.

On one such jostle, Zayn’s eyes opened a bit. She lowered her leg. Distantly, Zayn thought that she already had her eye on the green jumper anyway. She choked out a laugh as she made quick work on her trousers. “Christmas was last month.”

There was a pause but for the heavy breathing from the both of them, the mild squabbling from the mother and daughter in the next room, the hipster type tunes from the speakers, the harassed retail person with a hysterical woman two rooms down.

“You’re such a dork,” Harry said as she slid her arm under Zayn’s thigh, Zayn’s leg settling on the back of Harry’s again. “Oh god,” Harry moaned, voice rough, palm gliding its short way up from the moist inside of Zayn’s thigh.

And up. Where Zayn needed it the most.

Zayn jolted against Harry, arching off the wall. Harry rubbed faster, then slower with every hiss that was Zayn’s tell until Zayn’s hips found a steady desperate rhythm. Zayn latched her mouth on Harry’s shoulder to keep quiet, and grabbed at Harry’s breasts to distract herself because Harry was a fucking tease, only for Harry to pull away and slide down, breathe hot on Zayn’s navel.

She was looking up at Zayn, looking too pleased as she brought her fingers to her smirking mouth. Zayn felt lightheaded as she watched Harry suck and lick, finger by wet finger conspiring with that obscene mouth to drive Zayn mad.

“Tastes amazing,” Harry said, before pushing aside Zayn’s knickers again.

Zayn tangled her fingers with Harry’s hair and pulled. “No teasing.”

Harry smiled, a sharp serial biscuit eater edge to it, and started out by giving Zayn a slow and steady lick.

Ten minutes might have gone by, or twenty. Zayn couldn’t really keep track without anything but the buzzing in her head. At one point, her eyes cracked open and caught the mirror to her left.

It was a vague sight. Zayn against the wall, heaving chest a rise and fall of black ink and equally black bra, bottom lip an aggressive red from the teeth muting her keening, fingers of one hand lost amongst Harry’s curls, her leg falling down Harry’s back, lavender knickers a twisted mess. Harry looked very intent down there.

Occasionally she would glance up at Zayn, pull her lips and tongue away from her fingers, looking at Zayn with this incredulous slacking of her jaw like she couldn’t believe it was Zayn right there.

Well Zayn was right here. She gave Harry’s scalp a purposeful scratch ending with a tug, because Harry seemed to get off on it.

Zayn didn’t notice her eyes closing again.

*

For some weeks now they had been meeting in various streets and shops, cafes and pubs. There were also those two occasions in Zayn’s flat, the first with the scent of biscuits clouding Zayn’s sex-heated mind and the second with Zayn holding Harry down as she licked Hershey’s chocolate sauce down Harry’s torso, both of which ended with the two of them rambling around graffiti-sprayed Great Eastern Street. Harry happened to be monogamous to her bicycle, though, so other delightful times were had in the backseat of Zayn’s car.

So when Harry had invited Zayn to come over to Harry and Niall’s flat in Pimlico on a day Niall wouldn’t be coming home, a week after the fitting room sex, it felt like sunlight was frothing through the otherwise slate-grey sky.

Zayn loved sunny days. Back home in Bradford, she used to lean against their low brick wall with a book or a comic, basking in a summer day, her sunglasses pushed up against her scalp. But she didn’t mind today’s stony wall of clouds when Harry was cheerfully haggling with the butcher.

Tachbrook Street Market was a spot of colour and convenience in quiet and stylish Pimlico, the cake in the middle of an austere china. That Saturday was especially packed even with the threat of some rain, and Zayn already had to dodge from the umbrellas pessimistically kept open.

“All right,” Harry said, motioning for them to leave, “we have enough ground beef now. I promised you carbonara. I’m going to blow your mind away.”

“You’re quite the kitchen witch.”

Harry beamed. She had insisted on being referred to as a witch after reading Zayn’s notes on the history of female images in literature.

“What about goddess?” Zayn had wondered.

“Shhh, that’s not in your notes,” Harry had said, then stuck two of her chocolate-dipped fingers inside Zayn’s mouth.

They turned the corner to Harry’s street, a well-paved stretch hemmed in by terraced buildings. Harry was especially cheery today, humming and swinging their joined hands in wide arcs.

“Do you think I should give out raisins?” Harry asked.

Zayn looked at her. Harry often said things like this, even though she was the one who often pointed out that Zayn was “an odd petal.” Zayn tried to school her face so that it would not look like she was judging too hard whilst on the verge of laughing.

Instead, Zayn asked, “Why would you give out raisins? And how?”

“Oh, right,” Harry said, as they stepped in to her building, “you hate raisins. You probably wouldn’t like potato salad with raisins. And you love potato salad.”

Zayn chuckled. “Don’t look so heartbroken, babe. Potato salad’s one of the few things I can do in all that cooking stuff.”

Harry frowned. “Are raisins really supposed to be in it? I have an American friend who puts raisins in it all the time. Never thought it was weird.”

“You know those insufferable Minions?” Zayn said. They stopped in front of a door in the third floor, and Harry started fumbling for the keys. “Raisins are the Minions of food, like,” Zayn finished darkly.

Harry burst out laughing. She tipped her head back, spine almost going along with it, and nearly let the bag of ground beef plop to the floor when her door swung open.

“Happy birthday, baby sis!”

Zayn startled. “Fuck!”

Harry lost the backward arc to gravity. Her long arms flailed, but Zayn was already there with steadying hands on her hips. Harry covered one of Zayn’s hands with her own, gently squeezing it, before turning towards the now swiftly crowding doorway.

“Gemma!” Harry exclaimed, eyes wider than usual, “I almost dropped the ground beef!”

Leaning against the door was a young woman with slashes of neon blue against her dark hair. She had a shade of Harry on her face, or it could be that Harry had a shade of Gemma on her own, but it was undeniable that they were siblings in Gemma’s laughing-bright eyes and at the amused quirk of her pink mouth.

From Gemma’s side came a loud cheery voice. “Don’t worry, Haz, we got all your favourites!” A head of tousled short hair peeped out of the door, which Zayn recognised to be Niall Horan’s, followed by an a hand vigorously waving a stick of plastic blue flowers in Harry’s face.

“Niall!” There was an incredulous smile creeping up in Harry’s face, her grip on Zayn’s hand tightening. Zayn knew Harry could be excitable around flowers. “You’ve a part in this! And I thought, like, I could have the flat for a day.”

Gemma’s dark eyes settled on Zayn, her smirk becoming more pronounced. “Oh, a day alone with the lovely Tamsin, I see.”

Zayn’s hand twitched in Harry’s grip, though Zayn could feel an odd calm, chilly and prickling, immediately settling from her shoulders down to her fingertips.

“No, Gemma,” Harry said, “this is Zayn.”

Zayn would never know if an awkward pause occurred because another voice piped in, a distinctly American one, from the tall blonde looming behind Gemma. “Well, I’ve made two of your favourites, Harry. They wouldn’t eat themselves, so come in to your flat.”

The flat was a bit larger than Zayn’s but it still felt quite stifling with around twenty people packed in it. There was a tastefully decorated crepe birthday banner tacked on the powder blue wall of the sitting room, amidst glossy posters of guitars and frames of prints and single rocks.

Harry looked at Zayn, as if reassuring her, and led her further in by the hand.

Zayn didn’t know what her own face looked like, but she liked to think she was good with not giving anything away. Mostly because she liked to think that anything to give away would best be communed with later, alone in her own room, with only the shawl-draped lamp on.

Taylor Swift, the American friend, turned out to be a great baker and also someone who wouldn’t just settle with what she called “classic American apple pie.” She had also conjured an odd delight called Derby Pie.

“Quite exotic, this Derby Pie of yours,” someone named Nick Grimshaw remarked.

Harry was talking to a friend from Uni on Zayn’s other side, so Zayn nodded and smiled a little at Swift. “Outstanding. And the whipped cream is a nice touch.”

“Thank you so much. Please call me Taylor.” She held out her red-tipped hand, her equally aggressive-red lips curling.

“Zayn. Hello, lovely to meet you.”

“Zayn. So pleased to meet you, too,” Taylor said, shaking Zayn’s hand. “I could write three songs about your lashes. An album about your really gorgeous face.”

Nick Grimshaw laughed. “Stop it, darling, you’ll make her blush.” Turning to Zayn, he said, “But yes, she could. She’s a songwriter. Sometimes writes for Niall.”

“Oh, well, I was under the impression you’re a pastry chef,” Zayn said.

“You’re a sweetheart.” Taylor preened. “That’d also go well with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, if you get bored with whipped cream.”

Harry popped by Zayn’s side a moment later, her hand a shadow of a touch on Zayn’s elbow. “Zayn,” she said, voice soft.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Zayn said, and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “Go mingle, we’ll talk later, yeah? It’s your day.”

A small soft smile trickled on Harry's face, replacing the mild frown. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Zayn said, trying for a smile herself. "And also, when were you going to tell me it's your birthday."

"When I've cooked our carbonara?"

There was wistfulness in Harry's smile now, with a tinge of hope, as her eyes flicked from the fridge where Gemma had put the ground beef and back to Zayn. Zayn would have poked Harry's cheek, her finger leaving a dimple, or else feed Harry a bite of Derby pie from her own fork, but something was holding her back today.

"You're going to surprise me with your birthday, is that it?" Zayn settled for saying. "You dork."

"Takes one to know one, as the bananas say."

"The fuck do bananas know."

Harry did mingle, telling everyone in the flat that Zayn loathed bananas. Taylor whipped out a tub of vanilla ice cream from out of nowhere, though Zayn suspected it was probably from her very efficient red purse.

"So what fruits do you like?" Taylor asked as she scooped mounds of fluffy looking ice cream onto Zayn's third slice of pie.

"Mangoes, for sure." Zayn threw a smile at Niall, who had come over with a becrumbed plate and a huge grin for Taylor. "And avocado."

"What about melons?" Niall said.

Zayn grinned. "Well, well. They're my third, mind reader."

Niall shrugged. "Your top three look like tits, so."

Taylor was smirking as she put down the tub to let a pouty Niall serve herself, and sliced a considerable width of apple pie for her own plate.

"Makes it nicer to think about them, then," Zayn said.

"I like a juicy peach myself," Taylor put in.

"You're all fruit-filthy," Nick Grimshaw lazily said from where he was pouring wine in his banana milkshake. "Also generalising since our Harry isn't too particular with that kind of thing. Even if she does love bananas, bless her."

Taylor snorted. "I like boobs and man flesh, but I'm particular with names."

Zayn gripped her fork as Niall shot Taylor a look.

"This is awkward and quite iffy considering the occasion," Grimshaw said. He paused, stirring in the wine with the milkshake. "But rest assure, Zayn, love, that we're just out of the loop with Harry's dating life at the moment."

Zayn excused herself to fill her glass with water. Her mouth felt quite dry, which was baffling and also unfair to the scrumptious pie.

"Not Gemma, though," Zayn heard Niall say, as she squeezed her way back to their little circle. "Harry was talking to her about Ben two weeks ago."

"Did she dump that Natalia yet?" Taylor snorted. "Tamsin's a darling but -"

Overhearing things she only had a passing business with didn't suit Zayn. It was perfect for drawn-out drama, which she liked to think she didn't do. Zayn liked addressing things head-on which she'd done a lot of times but in a mild tone.

So she sidled back in, picking up her plate and a smile.

"How did you meet the birthday girl, Zayn?" Grimshaw said.

Zayn looked up from where she was making the tines of her fork sink into the ice cream. "At a label party. Three weeks ago."

They talked about Shahid's music for a bit, which was quite comforting, even more so when Niall and Taylor put in some comments and gossip about the industry in particular. Harry often popped up by Zayn's side: offering Zayn olives, or wrapping an arm over and around Zayn's upper chest to whisper if Zayn would like some sangria and also to stay after, or sipping her banana milkshake and pressed close by Zayn's side whilst Grimshaw side-eyed them and Niall and Taylor carried on. Zayn saw Gemma pull Harry out of the flat at one point, but she lost track of it when Niall roped her into a discussion on fairy tales and myths by way of some Irish folklore.

The party lasted for hours, turning into a lunch-afternoon tea-light dinner affair because every guest brought something for the surprise, even a truly repulsive kale salad. Gemma was the last one to leave, and when the front door closed behind her significant look to Harry, Harry announced, "Let me show you to my room first."

Harry's room had a massive collage of bamboos and flowers on a wall. Zayn gazed at it appreciatively for a few minutes, then let her eyes wander over to the cramped shoe rack, and scarves lying around, and the framed pictures near the bed.

Zayn was examining the diploma for photography from York Uni when Harry entered with a small tray and began bustling around, like an overly tall squirrel.

"Sit, please," she said, scooping up the scarves and tossing them into a quickly shut closet. Zayn thought she glimpsed a pile of other scarves and also an alarming pile of hats.

Zayn sat on the edge of the bed, willing herself to be content to silently watch Harry offer her a mug of green tea and some sugar. When Harry finally settled down beside her, for quite some time all that was left was Zayn's silence.

"I go out a lot," Harry finally said. "But there are some weeks that I don't. But I do. Go out with people. I don't know if - if it's dating? Probably? Or just really good fun friends?"

Zayn took a sip of her green tea. It was unbearably leafy, tasting like a good advice from her mum which Zayn wouldn't be too keen about.

"And by a lot," Harry continued, "I mean it's probably a lot since there are overlaps." She still hadn't stopped stirring her tea, which she'd started as soon as she spoke. "But I. Uhm. But I just. Nothing feels set, is what I mean. I can't explain it, bollocks."

Zayn could sympathise. She'd learned to expect the end as soon as the third coffee date. Now she was wondering why she kept bothering. "I know."

The tinkling of the teaspoon on china abruptly stopped. "No, no," Harry said, eyes wide. "I'm not breaking up with you!"

Zayn put down her mug on the bedside table. It was no use. Her throat felt tight.

"I'm not," Harry repeated. "I -" She run her fingers through her hair, stared down at her mug, then proceeded to glug down her green tea in record speed.

The mug clattered on the tray when Harry put it down. "I haven't seen anyone else since I met you," she said, words tumbling out just as fast as the tea tumbled in. "I stopped. I didn't realise it for a while, but I stopped seeing the others. I haven't done it before, Zayn, not since secondary, and it's unsettling at first."

She stopped for a breath, wild around the eyes. "And then you're -" Harry's hands flailed for a bit. "And I couldn't - But yeah, so I decided to bring you here today. I want you here today."

"Only for today?" Zayn whispered.

"For a lot of future todays? If you want."

Zayn stared at Harry. Then she started giggling, which was fucking weird even to herself, and she opened her arms. Her breath hadn't returned to her yet when Harry immediately crashed into her, sending Zayn flat on her back with an armful of a cuddly Harry.

"You dork," Zayn mumbled into Harry's hair. "Of course I want a lot of future todays. If you want."

"Wouldn't ask if I don't," came Harry's voice from somewhere in the vicinity of Zayn's right jaw. "I love my birthday too much."

"Thank you for talking to me," Zayn said. "I didn't mean to laugh. I was just - surprised, I guess? Also that line's cheesy."

"Hey, I'm not good with words."

"You tried, so thank you for that, and I like your cheesy line, you sap."

"All this name-calling is really hurting me," Harry said, with a happy hum. Then she pushed herself up on her elbows. "I was relieved when you laughed, to be honest. You were so quiet and I couldn't get a read of your face."

"It's one of my many talents," Zayn admitted, "a decent poker face."

*

There was a streak of grey sunlight peering in between Harry's curtains but Zayn, though always appreciative of sunlight, wasn't paying much attention because her head was between Harry's thighs.

They had birthday cuddles last night instead of birthday sex. They did snog for a bit, and at one point Harry had shifted them around so she could lick and suck at the tattoo on Zayn's nape.

"This one drives me crazy, god," had been Harry's wet mumble.

Zayn loved Harry's thighs, and she remembered her teenaged self wishing for these thicker thighs. But now Zayn was fine with biting and kissing them, and letting them trap her with their fleshy grip.

Harry was quite preoccupied with moaning and gasping out filthy endearments, and Zayn was having a breakfast arguably better than trifle, when Niall thumped on the door and called, "Harry, wake up, we're gonna clean the house and I'll make you post-birthday brekkie, Harry!"

Startled, Zayn attempted to sit up and ended up falling on her arm across Harry's hip. Harry grunted, rubbing Zayn's shoulder. "I don't wanna go out," she replied.

"We're not going out, Haz," Niall chortled. Harry wiped Zayn's chin with her thumbs and stuck one between Zayn's lips. Zayn sucked on it as they listened to Niall say, "I'll make you grilled cheese sandwiches, right, and a banana smoothie. Then let's have roomie bonding, how bout that."

When they stepped into the kitchen later, Niall paused chopping bananas and raised her eyebrows. "I pass out, and someone sleeps in your room. Morning, Zayn." She sent Zayn a beam, sunny as her hair, and Zayn decided she quite liked Niall.

"Oh, hush," Harry said, looking pink and pleased, "let me do the banana smoothie."

Zayn hummed, and volunteered to make the tea.

*

It didn't feel like having a girlfriend, in a lot of ways that Zayn was used to.

They didn't have meticulous calendar appointments, no strict plans. Harry was always wandering around London and sometimes into Surrey, camera in hand, so that Zayn learned to text if she didn't want to knock on an often empty Pimlico flat. And when Harry came over to Shoreditch and Zayn wasn't there, she'd bike over to the library or to the nearest bookshop or record shop, and find herself quite lucky.

Zayn was quite a chill person, but the no-strict-plans stopped outside her planner. There was an ever-growing list of anthologies and publications she'd planned on submitting to, and a separate list of those which had invited her. Zayn also kept track of conferences she could attend without having a professorship yet, and without having to present a paper. Though if the qualifications weren't too particular, Zayn had managed a handful of times to sidle into the list of speakers, anyway, and spent the rest of day collecting names and anecdotes.

On weekends when the planner was quite booked, Zayn would wake up at six and jog around the neighborhood, her playlist HYPE TUNES spurring her to cover as much ground for an hour. She didn't box or bench-press like Liam, but she saw nothing wrong with classic jogging. After a shower, she'd head over to The Breakfast Club for a decent meal before the day-long date with her laptop and her desk beside her large study window.

She would call Harry beforehand when she planned on barricading herself in the uni library, and Harry would always insist on picking her up at six so they could eat together.

"You're quite intense with your work," Harry commented one night. Zayn looked up from her cheeseburger, as Harry continued, "But it looks like you're having fun. Also, it's hot."

"Is it," Zayn said in a mild tone, amused. She'd heard a lot of things about her work - insane, crazy, a mindfuck, and impossible - but never hot.

"Oh, yeah," Harry said, leaning in for a peck and succeeding in toppling over the ketchup bottle with her elbow.

After they finished giggling and when Zayn had set her juice glass far from the Harry Hazard Zone, Harry waved her hand towards Zayn's tray and said, "I've been wondering if it's an artsy thing?"

"What is?"

"Or a hipster thing."

Zayn snorted. "Speak for yourself."

"Your tray's always so neat, like. Look at it! I should take a picture."

Zayn looked at her tray, at the empty packets of sugar stacked neatly beside the mindfully folded used paper napkins, at the ordered spill of chips and the stirrer perched on another sheet of clean napkin.

Then she looked at Harry's tray beside it, and laughed.

The no-strict-plans involved Zayn saying, as they showered one Friday morning, "My mum wants to meet you."

Harry kept on shampooing Zayn. "Sure. Tomorrow?"

Zayn did call her mum as soon as they stepped out of the bathroom, just to make sure that "Anytime" really meant anytime. So the next morning, she found herself dazed as Harry piled on the backseat of Zayn's car a flowery duffle bag and a box of homemade pastries.

The crawl out of London was made bearable by several things. They had tea from Zayn's thermos, and they shared pastry and biscuits from the other tin that Harry brought. They alternated their music libraries in the iPod dock, so midmorning found Zayn laughing as Harry twisted her tongue to rap along, the A1 rolling by outside, gilded by the late April sunlight.

As soon as she opened the door, Mum cupped Zayn's face to give her a kiss on each cheek. "Sunshine! I've missed you. Come in, come in. And you must be Harry."

Safaa came bounding down the stairs, nose smudged with yellow highlighter and glad for any excuse to take a break from all the A Levels revising.

"Ooohh, Mum, she's got green on her hair now," she crowed.

Zayn rolled her eyes playfully as Mum examined the green twined around the swath of purple, and remarked, "Well. At least it's not something that takes a while to get used to."

They found Dad in the backyard, singing an old Bollywood favourite as he trimmed and fussed with his plants in little hanging baskets. He was just finishing the bridge when he looked up and saw them huddled by the kitchen door. He grinned and said, "Zayn, my darling, what is that on your hair again?"

"I was just saying at least it's not so surprising like her undercut," Mum said, with a fond smile.

"Well," Dad said mildly, as he put down the scissors, "she did shave all of it one time. Were you not surprised by that?"

"It looked tidy," Mum said with a shrug.

Zayn groaned, but it didn't stop the smile intent on splitting her face. "Mum, Dad, this is Harry, please don't embarrass me in front of her."

"Hi," Harry said, dimpling. "I used to work in a bakery. How have you been? Would you fancy some raisins?"

Doniya came over for lunch and started an involved conversation with Harry, as Saf prodded Zayn with her A Levels.

"Shame you couldn't meet Waliyha," Mum told Harry, as she passed Harry the lemon jug, "she's in Manchester for uni."

"Oh, what's her degree?"

"Architecture," Saf chimed in. "I'm aiming for Chemical Engineering, myself."

"Zayn used to be in Electrical Engineering," Doniya told Harry.

No one said anything for a beat, then Dad sighed. "My riskiest daughter, I've always said." He sent a soft smile in Zayn's way, perhaps to let her know it was all right now. "As long as you're happy now, I should think I am happiest."

Zayn swallowed around a piece of samosa stuck in her throat, but found that there was none. "Yeah, Pops."

Mum's voice was brisk and cheery when she said at length, "Now Harry, love, tell me all about fondant."

"Doniya said she still has your exam papers," Harry said quietly. They were sitting on Zayn's childhood bed after lunch, the heavy hum of a sleepy afternoon doing little to dampen the glowing fairylights strung up above her shelves. "In Electrical," Harry continued.

Zayn didn't shrug so as not to jostle Harry, who had been doing an excellent impression of a cat, face tucked into Zayn's neck and fingers twining with Zayn's necklace.

"They were all right," Zayn said.

"They were bloody ace, Zayn," Harry said. She must have felt Zayn tensing because she sat up and put her hand on Zayn's cheek, peering intently into her face. "I just mean, I've known you're brilliant but it's always nice to collect more evidence, yeah? I think Doniya said your lowest was 86 percent? And you got 99, like, three times."

Zayn smiled and tugged on a stray curl falling over Harry's eyes. "They were so happy," she told Harry. "All of my relatives, like. Especially Mummy and Pops. Nearly threw fucking parties. And I was so happy that they're happy, you know?"

Harry nodded encouragingly.

"But it, it felt." She paused. "You know, I started wearing Iron Man T-shirts in my second year? Tony Stark's an electrical engineer," Zayn added. Harry's smile turned into a huff of laughter.

"Just to feel inspired," Zayn continued, after Harry was done poking her cheek for being a nerd. "Like, it's nice that I'm doing fine, it is. But - it's like I can't see myself in it. Didn't feel real."

"And one day you turned around and shifted to English."

"After my third year, yeah. Electrical takes five."

"You had some nerve," Harry said, after a pause.

"Got the tits," Zayn agreed.

*

The no-strict-plans held when Harry suggested heading over to Holmes Chapel on Sunday afternoon and finishing the weekend there. Zayn would have bargained for another weekend if she had classes on Mondays, but as it was, she was thanking her foresight to arrange such a schedule as they made the hour and so drive to Cheshire.

Harry's mum happened to be active on social media, and became very excited upon catching Harry's Instagram photo of Zayn's and Harry's feet put up on Dad's handmade footstool.

Zayn thought Harry's mum being excited meant also being teary, because as soon as she hugged them both and urged Zayn to call her Anne, her smile started to tremble and she tried to hide her face by leading them down the hall and asking, "I hope you like carrot cake, Zayn, dear."

"So how did you meet?" Robin asked, as he poured them tea.

Harry smiled at them beatifically. "Oh, you know, I got my period and Zayn's got the towel."

They spent a healthy twenty minutes discussing feminine hygiene, with Harry's stepdad nodding along with interest.

That evening as they caught their breaths on the floor of Harry's bedroom, Harry asked, "Is there - is there a reason why you, like, stay quiet during sex? Purposefully?"

"Do I?" Zayn said, sleepily, rubbing Harry's sweat slick stomach.

"Yeah. You bite it off, like. Choke it back." She leaned down and gently kissed Zayn's damp neck. "Even when we first met, with the macadamia biscuit."

Zayn didn't say anything for a long time. But she could remember, as she stared out of the darkened glass on the window, those confusing years in secondary and well into uni, but snogging girls, anyway, behind the bike shed or in the bathrooms in hall parties. Those years when at first it was a struggle to bite on her own fingers to keep quiet, because it was always the wrong person to get caught with.

Softly, hesitantly, she told Harry as much.

When they returned to London, there was a sizable post waiting for Zayn. She sorted through university newsletters and invitations as Harry peered over her shoulder. There was a Latina anthology on criticism from her friend Lauren, and Zayn smiled as she tucked it under her arm to look at the last item, which turned out to be a poetry book from Taylor.

Harry stayed the night so she was there as Zayn got ready in the morning, leaning against the doorway with a cup of coffee and being incredibly dubious of Zayn's clothes.

"Not everyone wants to wear floral shirts everyday, Harry," Zayn told her. "Or severely printed shirts."

"I also wear floral suits," Harry pointed out.

Zayn ignored her, focusing instead on looking for the manila envelope which contained her students' marked essays. It wasn't until she spotted it tucked between books that she heard the shutter click.

"This should look ridiculous," Harry muttered as she examined her camera, "a faux pas."

Zayn rolled her eyes, pushing past Harry to fill her thermos with coffee. As she was stepping out of the flat, Harry caught up with her and mumbled into their kiss, "I hope you feel good about your sartorial choices."

"Oh, I do, babe." With a final peck, she added, "We'll get you flowers, too, yeah?"

They strolled from Zayn's flat to Columbia Road one Sunday in May, when the flower and plant market was open and musicians played for the florally-inclined. They bought a tasteful collection of pressed roses and poppies and lotuses and dahlias for Harry, and a beribboned bonsai for Zayn. Then, sun-warmed and shoulders touching, they ambled over to Brick Lane where they had a grand time adding vintage chunky rings to their separate ring collections.

"I was wondering," Harry started one evening, as Zayn finished an email to Taylor about Warsan Shire's poetry collection, "if it's okay to include you in my portfolio?"

"What?" Zayn said, surprised. "You mean your photography portfolio?"

"Yeah. Yeah, um, I think I found it. The thing I'd like."

Zayn set down her laptop, dusted off bread crumbs from her torn jeans, and joined Harry on the sofa, cuddling into her. "Yeah? What is it?"

"Fashion, like, I'd like to be the one behind those huge billboards."

Zayn dug her chin on Harry's shoulder. "Yeah, sure, you can use my photos. I'm so happy for you, love."

After Harry had withdrawn her tongue from Zayn's mouth, Zayn teased, "But I thought most of those are, like, not acceptable."

"I know," Harry groaned, "I dunno how you do it."

In August they went away for a holiday as Harry completed her portfolio. Zayn always made potato salad for breakfast, and Harry let her because Harry had once declared her undying love for Zayn's potato salad, and also probably to make up for Zayn feeling so anxious during landings and take-offs.

There was also the fact that Harry made them endless jugs of sangria, sometimes out in the beach, beaming at strangers with her sunglasses and bra-less tits almost falling out of her inadequately buttoned shirt.

In the afternoons they scrumped berries, running and stumbling hand in hand around a sun-drenched orchard. Harry suggested that they should fuck in it, but Zayn pointed out that all these sneaking would be useless if they get caught with cleavages full of berries.

But they did fuck later, Zayn perched precariously on the edge of the night-cooled rumpled sheets, Harry relentless as she grunted, "S all right, petal. It's just us, Zayn," until odd strangled gasps came out of Zayn's mouth and she thought she would melt away.

Zayn cleaned the scrumped berries with Harry the next morning, and was solicitous with helping her prepare them in an attempt at a Greek salad as advised by a nice belly dancer they'd met at the resort bar, until Harry brought out broccoli and the blender.

"Oh, no," Zayn said, "I won't stay here and watch you defame these remaining berries."

"You're dramatic, and also lacking in faith."

On the way out, Zayn grabbed Harry's wide-brimmed hat from the coffee table and the anthology from Lauren, bookmarked on an essay by Cherrie Moraga. The sea breeze curled nicely around Zayn's skin uncovered by the denim shorts, and even filtered in Harry's plain white shirt which bulked around Zayn with the wind and tickled her mid-thigh.

When she heard the click, loud and familiar amidst the shouting from the sand pirates game happening with some kids, Zayn glanced around with a smirk. Harry leaned beside her, smiling at her like Zayn was a broccoli biscuit. Zayn rolled her eyes and put out her cigarette on the steel banister separating the resort from the beach.

 

"I'd place this outfit in your top ten," Harry mused, "maybe even the top one."

 

"Is that so. Like me nicking your clothes, then?"

*

With autumn came Zayn's favourite hush, gilded and almost secretive, cold but dashed with the fiery colours of summer. With it also came Harry's job as a fashion photographer.

It seemed almost made for Harry: flitting around the London, at first, and when Harry had showed promise, out into Kent and Edinburgh and Antrim and the Isle of Man.

The hours were quite exhausting, Harry would report, but being surrounded by fabrics, make-up, and beautiful people was enough to cheer her up during reshoots.

Zayn spent some weeks determinedly not entertaining the idea of an open relationship, if she should bring it up to Harry, or if she shouldn't just let something she didn't know hurt her. But Zayn had always wanted to understand, and she'd always abided by head-on talks. For god's sake, she never subtweeted in Twitter. She believed the @ button, the email or even the phone number were there for a reason.

"I was thinking, like," Zayn started, one weekend when Harry didn't have to fly off somewhere, "you know, you're in a lot of places a lot of the time, yeah?"

Harry made a humming noise from where she was behind Zayn, weaving flowers with Zayn's hair.

"If you wanted to have fun," Zayn managed to say.

After a pause, Harry prompted, "Yeah, I do have a lot of fun."

"If you wanted to. With someone -"

Harry slowly tilted Zayn's head to the side, so that Zayn's nose was brushing against Harry's temple as Harry perched her chin on Zayn's shoulder. "I want to have fun with you, yes."

Zayn swallowed. "I'm serious."

"Me, too." Harry said, voice low. "When I'm seeing you, I'm seeing only you."

Zayn put down the joint she was assembling on her open comic book, and kissed Harry.

It rolled by like that, Harry always off to picturesque settings, sometimes in time zones different from Zayn's, but she would always return with a pleased smile and a flower for Zayn. And even though Harry would always be surprised at the social whirl happening on Zayn's hair, and swore that she could keep track of the dates for her journal just from Zayn's hair alone, she said she was glad that Zayn would always welcome her back.

Zayn still sometimes thought of when it would end, but it was becoming a dull fuss in the back of her head with every month that passed, brighter and clearer with Harry's guffaws from across the kitchen table or Harry's hand clamped around Zayn's arm as Zayn woke up in the mornings spooning Harry.

It was almost non-existent especially now, as Zayn sat on the cherry red sofa Harry bought, meticulously painting on Harry's thigh. It was perched across Zayn's lap, and Harry was mostly quiet as she watched the swirls of the flower forming and frothing from Zayn's brush. There was a record softly playing, and Harry was tracing Zayn's nape tattoo with its rhythm.

Their sitting room was drenched with sunshine, and in that moment, Zayn felt like she could be the sun.

 

**Author's Note:**

> When not scrambling for coursework deadlines or daydreaming about fics I'm short on time to write, I'm over at blotsandcreases.tumblr.com sighing happily at all the great things. :)


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